


Sheepdog

by FuckingHateCheese



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bitterness, F/M, Falling In Love, Jealousy, Other, Revenge, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-04 01:55:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14582376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FuckingHateCheese/pseuds/FuckingHateCheese
Summary: You need help.





	1. Retrograde

**Author's Note:**

> Pennywise is welcome!! To fuck me into nth dimension!!!

It started a week ago, when you travelled to the market in the center of town. You’d walked in, expecting to buy what you needed- and maybe a few things you didn’t, but what was really going to happen if you bought a chocolate bar?-and slip back out. And so in you’d strolled, the loud squeaking of the cart you were pushing acting as white noise.

Under the loud fluorescent lights, you felt a kind of peace that only seemed to exist within the store’s walls, peace that nearly crossed the line of tranquility, and into catatonia, allowing your stride to become more languid and relaxed as you combed the aisles for your groceries. You could stay there forever, dropping things in your cart and walking along the floor until the lights turned off and the workers had to escort you out until the next day. There was no other way around it- the grocery was your happy place, and there had been many a time- too many to count- when you’d looked to the building for solace and refuge when the outside world proved to be too much for you to handle.

In the shopping mart, it was fine to unfocus your eyes, let your body move on autopilot like the rest of your town, and pretend that you didn’t care enough about anything to front like you belonged, when you knew you didn’t. Stare idly as you milled about in a trance, like a zombie, shuffle your feet loudly across the shiny linoleum, even drool if you felt it was the thing to do- all were welcome. The only thing you prohibited in the Derry Supermarket was thought, or introspection.

Those thoughts would catch up with you and toss you into that dark ocean of tears soon enough- in your bed, your bathtub, the toilets at your job-but not here. Not here.

You continued walking, until you felt your cart abruptly stop and the shrill noise of a woman’s yelp, like a kicked dog, reached your ears. You quickly focused your eyes to see a thin old woman, her thin hair pinned severely to her head, uncomfortably close to your basket. She fixed you with a bleary eyed stare, deftly yanking the hem of her long dress out from up under the wheels of your cart.

You blanched at her expression. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention!” you mumbled worriedly, your grip on your shopping cart tightening. She didn’t bother to react to your statement, instead flicking her eyes up and down at you, then curling lightly her lip in mild distaste. You lowered your head slightly and walked on, feeling her eyes on your retreating figure, even after you’d paid for your groceries and left for your car.

As you strolled to your car, loading the groceries in, you couldn’t help but think that it might be better to just walk back inside of the store, at least for one minute. At least for ten. It wasn’t much better than your own home, not in terms of style or furnishings, or atmosphere, especially not with that lady inside, but. At least you weren’t suffocated in the grocery store. At least nobody knew you there.

Packing the last of your food in the back seat, you sighed. You couldn’t spend another day wandering around the grocery store- the few workers who acknowledged you would only give you that Look you hated, the one people had been giving you ever since you’d returned last month. You knew some of them meant to sear, meant to burn- the set of their eyes told you that they knew you were a traitor, and deserved to be alienated and quarantined in that damn supermarket until you keeled over, and the paramedics wheeled you away with a sheet over your body.

But the ones you couldn’t stand even more were the ones who stared at you like you were a bird that had hit a window one too many times to fly to safety.

Where the others’ eyes felt hard like granite or steel, their eyes felt like pools of water, deep and too warm, like they could melt you alive if you stared into them for a second. So you kept your head bowed, shifted your eyes away, crossed your arms, pressed your lips together into a thin line. The fight to keep yourself in one piece was hard enough without someone’s gaze turning you into a puddle of vulnerability.

 

 

Your house loomed in the distance, and you brought the car to a crawl as it got closer. You drove slower and slower, nearly parking in the middle of the street, until you heard a loud honk. Heaving a heavy sigh, you drove into the shoulder of the road, so that the driver behind you could go on, resting your head on the steering wheel in between your hands. What you wouldn’t give to be able to drive back to the store, and lose yourself inside, to never go inside your house again. Leave it to the rats and vagabonds, let them rip the floorboards and destroy your grandmother’s fine china. Hands gripping the wheel tighter, you imagined putting the car in reverse, righting yourself, driving away, back into the store parking lot, walking- skipping- back inside, cheerfully lying that you’d forgotten an item or two. You’d buy out their entire aisle of canned food, or vegetables, or live fish, or feminine products- whatever it took to stop the cashiers from making you leave after a couple hours.

Slowly, like peeling a scab off of a wound, you took your hands from the steering wheel, and clasped them in your lap, the leather of the wheel pressed against your forehead. “Not tonight. Not again tonight,” you whispered to yourself, pushing yourself off the steering wheel, out of the car.

Gathering the paper bags in one arm and unlocking the door in the other, you entered the house, the old air yawning back at you and escaping outside. “Yeah, yeah,” you muttered bitterly. “Nice to see you, too.”

 

You couldn’t make yourself do anything after you out the groceries away- you’d done your part, you’d played the role of the responsible adult, just like you did for 10 hours a day. You had a job, you bought groceries, you paid the bill for the little bit of light and water you used. There wasn’t much more room for anything else. And if you did all the things you were supposed to, who would judge you for falling apart and dying at the end of the day? At least you only did it when nobody was around to watch you crumble. At least you weren’t public with it.

The grocery store didn’t count.

Laying on the bed that you’d had as a child, you thought about how you’d been brought back to Derry. You thought that you’d done right- you’d studied in school, gotten a scholarship to a college far away, done good in your studies. Even as young as you’d been, you knew there was something rotten about this town, maybe even the whole state and it had taken you years to gather the hope the rest of the world wasn’t as crooked. So you studied and saved your paycheck from the store you worked at until you could leave it all behind, promising to your family that you’d visit holidays and stay in touch, knowing that it would only drag you down to stay attached to them. They’d let Derry pull them into the mud up to their necks. You couldn’t let it do the same to you. So you’d left, just like your siblings had and thought that the nightmare was behind you.

But whatever malevolent force that had lurked behind every corner in Derry, waiting to swallow everything whole, had been waiting for you to get too comfortable in your new life that you’d fashioned, it seemed. Not even two years in college- you’d gotten the call. And what other choice did you have, but to take the drive with your brother and sisters back to town?

You’d all gone, back to this crater in the earth, to bury your mother, but it had been you who’d been trapped, locked inside the tomb with her. You, who’d given your siblings the idea to even study to escape; they’d paid off her house and car, told you to keep your money, told you you’d need it. You begged them to reconsider- to sell the house, to bulldoze it to the ground, anything. But they’d stood fast, and said they wouldn’t have it any other way. They knew your scholarship wasn’t paying off much. It would be smarter to stay home. Even your old neighbor had pitched in, telling you that your mother was her dearest friend, that you looked so much like her, that she couldn’t take having the house being empty. They’d worn you down, and in the end, you’d seen no escape, so you bowed your head in defeat.

They’d all lied- your neighbor never visited. Your siblings made excuses not to come around on Christmases and Thanksgivings. They’d forced you to take this shitty, crumbling, rotting mass of wood and brick, left you to die in this two story prison, leading you on with promises of visits and hugs, while they went on to live the life you’d been smart enough to dream up. You clenched your fist, your eyes stinging with unshed tears.

Why would they turn on you? How could they turn on you? It didn’t feel like older brother and sister sternly guiding you to a safer life- it felt like a mob, slowly but surely leading you off a cliff. They were so logical it felt emotionless and cold, lines of code spit out by a machine.

You shook your head and groaned. It wouldn’t do you any good to pretend that it wasn’t your family, that your siblings weren’t themselves when they’d done this to you. They'd known exactly what they were doing when they'd sealed you away in this dungeon of a house, inside this prison of a city, maybe even the minute your mother had taken her last breath.

You weren't going to let them tie stones to your feet and let you sink to the bottom of the ocean. Almost as soon as you got back here- you got a job, bought the bare minimum to save money, practically living in near darkness and only showering when you absolutely needed to. You were going to run right back out of this fucking town, claw your way to the top where you siblings lived and drank champagne at parties, and toss them into the abyss the way they'd done to you. It was only a matter of biding your time- and oh, you were biding. Even with your shitty wages and occasional compulsion to shop at the grocery, you were saving a good deal, enough to stock up on gas and prepare for a drive away. It wouldn't be long now- that was the only thought keeping you from going straight into town and buying a gun and putting it to your temple.

It would only hurt worse to think that it wasn't fair, but it fucking wasn't. Everyone had run from this town the moment they could and managed to leave without pushing each other into the dirt- why had you been singled out? You weren't malicious. You didn't even know anybody enough to garner that kind of retribution. The only ones you'd ever really talked to had been your family. And look what that had gained you- a mouthful of bitter bile and a knife lodged into your back that ached with every step you took.

What if it wasn't a matter of time before you got out of here? What if Derry had a mind of its own, and had decided-maybe since the day you were born- that you would meet the same fate as your mother, and the only change you would see would be the travel from the morgue to the crematorium? You put your hands to your face. “Oh, God,” you whimpered, feeling your eyes sting and face heat.

It would only be a matter of time, you tried consoling yourself. You had already saved so much- already asked for a raise, already taken so many short cold showers and lit so many candles instead of turning on the lights. It had to work. Nodding stiffly, you wiped the beginnings of the tears off your face. You would escape this hell, and when you did the ones who trapped you would be sorry.

You smiled tightly and rose off the bed. Having plan and acting on it was one thing, but continuing to gather the strength was another. Sometimes, even if you told yourself it was only a matter of time, it wasn't enough to imagine throttling your traitor family. It made the ache go away, but lately it had failed to even give you a whisper of the strength it used to. Bloodlust was good for salving the wound, but even it wasn't enough some days. Most days.

Groaning at the popping in your joints, you rose to your feet. “This is bullshit,” you griped.

* * *

 

The town bar wasn't your favorite place to go- the patrons were loud and handsy, and the outside frequently smelled like stale alcohol, occasionally piss- but the drinks were stronger here than the bottles you could afford at the store. Hopefully, though, that wouldn't be the case today.

Your wish was granted, you saw as you drove up to the parking lot- the walkway was clean, the usual drunkard that sat at the door absent. Even the air around the place seemed to be a little bit cleaner, almost as if the owner had decided to care today about whether his bar went to hell. Thank God for small miracles, you thought, even if he ignored every other prayer you'd tossed his way.

Sitting at the bar, you ordered your usual- the strongest drink- and knocked it back, ignoring the half impressed, half concerned looks of the other customers. The music of the bar faded away as you kept downing the shot glass, followed by the lights, and then the voices of anybody else. The only thing visible was the bar, the shot glass, and the bottle that seemed to pour itself now. You knew you should give yourself a break, even if you were practiced; it wouldn't do well to be drunk and vulnerable in a bar full of Derry’s seediest. And yet, a voice in your head scoffed at your concern. Why bother, when it wasn't like you were really going to escape? How could you have fooled yourself? You weren't saving enough- you had maybe a sixteenth of the money you needed. You were going to die in this crumbling town. Have another shot, and another. Say something mean when the bartender asks if you're alright. Have another shot. You brought the glass to your lips with considerable effort this time, preparing to have one more- or five more. The whole bottle. You eyed the dregs of the alcohol, wondering if you could move fast enough to take it from behind the bar.

A hand on your shoulder stopped you from tilting your head back. “Don't you think that's enough?” A low voice asked you. Slowly, so as to not upset your balance, you turned to face who had spoken. A dark skinned man with the saddest expression you'd ever seen looked back at you, his brow creased with worry. You moved to grab at his hand, you weren't sure why- to grab it? To toss it off of your shoulder? Who knew- but couldn't seem to perform the rest of the action. The sensation of his hand, soft and warm, so unlike anything you'd had in so long, so much like the way your mother felt, coupled with the way the noises of the bar seemed to come back double time, the brightness of the lights above him- it was all too much. You felt your face crumble.

He somehow managed to look even more worried when you began to cry, face creasing in ugly patterns as you thought about your situation. Being asked about your mental state at a bar, most likely before you were escorted out, so you could be forced to go back to that fucking house... You couldn't hold back the wail that overtook you.

“Hey, now!” he said, trying to gently lift you out of the chair. His hand settled on your back. “Come on, now. Let's get you out of here.” You tried to cooperate, but your legs seemed to have turned into lead, keeping you stuck on the stool like you were a permanent fixture.

The thought brought another blubbery cry from your lips, and you grabbed hold of the man's sweater. “Please,” you think you managed to slur. Your arms felt heavy. Trying again to get a better hold on the man, you held on tighter, nails pinching his skin. He grimaced, but pressed on, his eyes soft.

Finally, with your combined efforts, you managed to rise from the seat, letting him walk you out. “Do you know her address?” the bartender asked him. “I'll find out. Take my car home, okay?” he assured him, carefully walking you to the door.

Once outside, he placed his hands on your shoulders to steady you. “Do you know your address?’ He asked you, his plum colored lips moved in slow motion, moving almost grotesquely as they formed words. You squinted in disgust, but tried to answer anyway. A stream of bile, so sudden you couldn't have prepared, however, launched from your stomach to your lips, rendering you incapable. The man managed to, with surprising speed, turn you away so you could vomit onto the concrete instead of his sweater, his hand rubbing light circles on your shoulder blades as your stomach emptied itself.

It seemed to go on forever, each second dragging like they weighed a thousand pounds, the sound of your vomit hitting the ground sharp and violent, like shattering glass. You struggled in his careful grasp until you couldn't have had any more to expel, hunched limply over. Your eyes watered with the force it had taken to throw all of your stomach’s contents up. All that food- the meager amount you allowed yourself to have- wasted on the floor. It couldn't have been more than ten dollars worth of noodles and bread, but you felt yourself prepare to cry again, breath hitching.

The man helped you stand upright. “All right,” he murmured. “You'll be okay, I promise,” as he walked you to the passenger side of your own car. “Can you tell me where you live?” You swivelled you head to look at him, his mouth pinched into a thin line, and reached for his hand, bringing it to your cheek as you began your second onslaught of tears. He nodded decisively. “Okay. Okay,” he quieted you, putting your car in reverse, and then drive.


	2. Salving the Wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it gets bad, maybe you learn to run.

When you woke up, head splitting, you were laid in a bed with sheets you didn’t recognize, light streaming brightly in from a window. You shut your eyes, throwing a hand over your face for good measure, groaning weakly. Everything was too much for you- from the way the scent of your hand wafted into your nose, the traces of alcohol making your stomach do unpleasant somersaults, to the the faint sound of a sink dripping loud enough to make you wish you were deaf. You thought about voicing your complaints aloud, but then realized that your voice would sound even louder than normal. You kept your mouth shut.

 

A growing sense of arid discomfort creeped over you, and you found that your throat was as dry as sandpaper. Closing your eyes even harder, you sluggishly weighed the pros and cons of walking over to the bathroom and drinking from the faucet. You cringed, thinking of how the water would sound right next to your ear. While it might not kill you to go and relieve your thirst, you weren’t going to bring yourself to suffer the journey. You deserved cotton-mouth for putting yourself in the situation to begin with, you decided.  
The memory of being dragged out of the bar filled your mind, shame heating your face and ears. Oh, you’d made a fool of yourself now. It wasn’t enough to be the pariah of Derry simply for leaving- you’d had to go and make a spectacle of yourself, drink until you cried and made a mess all over the floor like the rest of the drunkards, who were at least treated with civility because they were truly Derry’s citizens. The day you packed and left was the day you’d signed away your citizenship, and while it had seemed a good trade, you were paying the price for it now, in every cold stare, every housewarming party you weren’t invited to. Derry had, wholly and completely, shut its doors on you as punishment for your betrayal, and left you frostbitten and dying in the eternal winter of loneliness.

 

But if you were the pariah of the town, why had the man from the bar brought you home, to his home, no less? Your head pounded. You didn’t know him- you didn’t know anybody except your neighbor who never spoke to you. You weren’t really the talk of the town, not that you would know; nobody ever fed you anything from the rumor mill. What had possessed him to act so kindly towards you? You weren’t special, weren’t rich, weren’t a good friend. You rolled over and pressed your head into the cool side of the pillow underneath you, to spot a glass of water that sat on the nightstand next to the bed.  
With as much quickness as you could muster without toppling off the bed, you inched your way to the water, your fingers yearning to reach.

 

You made it to the nightstand, when a brown hand- like gingerbread, like syrup- reached down and handed you the glass. Just as slowly as you’d travelled to the side of the bed, you looked up to see the man from the night before, his dark eyes somehow even softer than last night. “Do you want some help?’ he asked, the corners of his full lips twitching. In spite of the dull headache that was beginning to grow in the corner of your mind, you tried your best to give him a smile, your mouth feeling unnaturally stretched. You took the glass from his hand, fingertips brushing his.  
He sat near the foot of the bed as you drank from the glass, the coolness of the water overriding your discomfort of having someone so close. The last time someone had deliberately chosen to be next to you had been so long ago, you’d chosen to lock the memory away and pretend that you’d been alone the minute you were separated from the womb, but here was someone else, sitting by you, sitting close enough to you to see the effects of the alcohol on your face and the mess that your hair undeniably was after a night of sleeping on it awkwardly. You drained the glass, then sat it down as quietly as you could. “Thank you,” you whispered. He nodded.

 

He seemed to be content with sitting quietly beside you while the condensation from the glass ran down your hand, but your own mind raced with a sudden surge of anxiety. You’d never been good with appreciating silences; in your own home, you’d speak to fill the space, sometimes to yourself, to break the wall of isolation that seemed to encase you no matter where you went. Conversation had been a large part of your upbringing; your mother talked endlessly, to you and your siblings, to your father, before he’d suddenly died, to the neighbors. You’d thought that the world had been filled with noise because of her, but when she was gone, you’d realized that she’d been the one responsible for it all along. The day she died was like a great silencing of anything that had ever been alive, and the silence had pressed painfully on your eardrums ever since.  
Now, with the man sitting on the bed with you, you’d wanted to say something, anything to banish the quiet that you could feel settling over your skin like so much dust, but no words came. It felt like you were underwater, unable to move fast, unable to speak, just the endless expanse of the sea with you trapped inside. You gripped the bedsheet, begging the man to say something. You felt yourself begin to itch.

 

He looked at you, seeing your distress. “I’m sorry,” he started, and you feasted on the rich timbre of his voice, nearly closing your eyes to fully savor the way it danced in the air, landed lightly on your ears. His voice had banished the discomfort that had been culminating inside, threatening to spill over and drown the both of you, chasing away the clamminess of your palms like sunshine, the sound like the warmest of embraces, warmer than anything you could have even begun to hope for upon returning to this cold, barren town. You looked at him- he looked back, almost expectantly. You furrowed your brow. “I asked if you’d rather I get off of the bed,” he explained, half prepared to leave.  
There it was again, that voice. It shouldn’t have been possible for you to feel more at ease within five minutes of being in his house than you had in the months that you’d been back in Derry, but the minute he spoke to you again, you felt it: a lifting sensation inside you, like your soul, which had laid in a crumpled heap prior to his existence, had begun to stir and sit upright.  
It had been so long since you’d seen or experienced someone like this, but there was no denying. Your mind retained the memory of people like him, kept it locked safely away, and so you knew it was the truth: the man who’d brought you to his own home to sober up was a kind man, kinder than anyone you’d known before.  
  
Trying your best to be furtive, you flicked your gaze over to him, eyes raking over the soft ochre of his skin, the field of dark curls on his head. He looked up at you then, eyes bleeding compassion and understanding, and only the softest emotions, and you stayed there, held by his gaze like a moth to a flame. His eyes were no flame- they were a candle that only produced the gentlest of light. He cleared his throat, and you flinched, the mirage over.  
“Sorry,” he mumbled. He turned to face you fully. “Are you feeling any better? I mean no disrespect, but you weren't doing so well last night.”  
A swell of shame crashed over you. “I'm sorry,” you warbled, head bent at an angle. “I just... I usually don't... In public, I mean,” you finished lamely, the embarrassment of remembering flooding your mind until you could barely speak. Why would you add a detail like that? Idiot, you berated yourself. All that was required was the apology- not a sorry backstory tacked on, too. He hadn't taken you home to hear about your troubles with alcohol. You resolved to never repeat it again, brow furrowed lightly.

 

He shook his head. “You don't need to apologize.” He seemed to be about to say more, but took note of the uncomfortable set to your face and thought better. “Do you need me to close the blinds? I know, usually the morning after... It's difficult, being around bright lights.” You shook your head, forcing yourself to feel every bit of pain the action brought you. How dare you make him uncomfortable with your inability to hold your liquor? How dare you force him to interact with you. “It's fine,” you said, grimly satisfied with the way the sunlight burned your eyes and made your head pound.

 

“I wanted to take home- your house, that is, but I couldn't get an answer out of you. I hope that wasn't, um. Strange.” He looked at you again for your reaction, and you shook your head. “No! It wasn't! It was... nice!” You winced at your volume, and the way your voice cracked. He nodded, the worried lines on his face falling away. “That's a relief- I was so worried it was a breach of... I don’t know, privacy? That's not the right word. I was worried that I’d breached something. But you... I couldn't leave you there like that.”  
The sincerity of his tone brought you up short, made you hold your breath and wait for him to... To say something to negate it- tell you he did these sorts of things for everybody; you were sure he did. He seemed the type. Maybe he even ran a home for wayward drunks who didn't know how to stop from making absolute fools of themselves. You waited, watching the light catch his face.

 

He extended a hand towards you. “I’m Mike, by the way. Hanlon. I should have started with that, but no matter. We're halfway to being introduced.” He smiled at you, his eyes like a warm embrace. You raised you own hand and, holding your breath, met his with your own.  
His hand was so warm and soft and beautiful, like holding velvet, that you wanted to take it in both of yours, bring it to your face again, press its warmth into yourself. Any way you could, you wanted to stamp its perfection onto you, your own section of love to keep for yourself when nights were cold. You basked in it, wishing that you could stay like this, with his golden brown hand in yours, until the end of time.  
You forced yourself to pull away, telling him your name, your mind replaying the sensation of so much softness coming into contact with you in such a concentrated dose. Your head spun. How did you deserve to feel like this?

 

You didn't, you remembered. You were a drunk who deserved to recover from your hangover as slowly as possible, not somebody worthy of basking in Mike Hanlon’s presence. Never someone like that.

 

“I was just about to make some breakfast if you were hungry,” he told you, and you nodded, restraining yourself from the yelp of pain that nearly burst past your lips.

* * *

  
Seated at his kitchen table with a plate of breakfast in front of you, Mike Hanlon looked even better- the planes of his face closer for you to admire. You bring your eyes to the wide bridge of his nose, the cupid’s bow that say above his suede upper lip, his coarse eyebrows. His eyes, like the coals of a fire, framed with curled lashes. You stabbed the food with your fork and looked away.

“So, if it's not too personal, where do you stay?” He looks at you, not like you're about to break, but like you've been glued together very haphazardly, and could shatter any moment. He hides it well, but you know that look better than anything else, even if he keeps it hidden and tucked away so as to not offend you.  
You tell him, trying your hardest to keep the vision of your house at bay, your unoccupied hand clenched. You watch him look at you and wonder how bad you must look, how dishevelled and lost. How sorry.

 

“I'm sorry,” you say to him. “I don't. It's hard to talk, I don't...” He lets you trail off, eyes compassionate in a way that makes you want to crawl on top of the table, into his arms where he’d hold you gently and look at you that way forever. “It's alright,” he says easily. “I’m not too hot socially- it can be hard.” You nod, though your insides have compressed themselves into knots and ribbons.  
There isn't much to talk about with him, so you close your mind and stare vacantly, like at the grocery store, hands placed on your thighs. Mike watches you unfold bloom apart, then politely looks away.

 

“I should head home, “ you say, rising to your feet, and moving to put your dish in the sink. “Thank you, for the breakfast. And taking me away.” You almost wince at how painfully inept you are, knowing you’ll be wringing your hands over ever misplaced word and stuttered syllable, even when you're well on your way home in your car, and the experience is far away.  
Mike goes to stand as well, and before you realize it he's wrapped you in an embrace that warms you until you almost forget how emptiness feels. He stands with you, his arms folding you into his solid chest, head resting in the dip of his neck. You breathe him in; he smells like pine and cinnamon.

 

“I know how difficult it can be, to feel isolated. Like you're the only person. But. If you ever need, if you're lonely...” He doesn't seem to know how to tell you what you desperately need to hear, but you understand him. Pressing yourself tighter against him, you nod.

 

On the drive home, you turn on the radio, something you've refrained from doing for so long; afraid the music would drain your car of gas that you needed. You don't sing along, but you do tap your fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the songs- it’s enough for you.

 

You spend so much time with the radio that you aren't prepared- aren't ready to see the house as you drive up. It sneaks up on you- though you'd been driving towards it- and you clench your fists around your wheel, your toes curling unpleasantly. Every other time, you brace yourself for the image of your home, count to five, the count to ten- but today you'd slipped up, and now any memory of Mike's warm hands and the placid calm you'd felt was running down your face and flying far, far away. “Stupid!” you hiss to yourself, your breath coming in short pants. Oh, you'd been a fool to think, to pretend to think, you could ever be content -normal, and now you were paying the piper, paying him in the nervous sweat that ran down your face, in the beginning of a tremble that began in your chin. Your blood ran so cold that it felt like ice, and you noted dimly that you had stopped breathing altogether.

 

Oh, God; you'd give anything to be back at Mike's, back in his warm bed or his bright kitchen with his easy smile and eyes like a warm blanket. Anywhere else, even back at the bar with the foul odor of your own vomit surrounding you. Even back at the funeral your siblings had arranged for you mother, where you'd choked on your tears until it felt like you would collapse to your knees and have to be buried alongside her. You feel your heart seize painfully at the thought, and your lungs throb as you suck in a breath of air in an attempt to calm yourself.

 

It had been a stupid idea, the stupidest idea to let Mike bring you to his home, stupid of you to let his sweet face and kind eyes distract and assure you. Stupid of you to turn on the radio that played now as you fought to keep yourself from shrieking. The cheerful melodies mocked you as you laboriously tried to bring yourself down from the frighteningly high ledge your mind had put you on. “Oh, God. Oh, God,” you whimpered pitifully, words devolving into small cries and pants, wringing your hands, the sweat on your palms making you gag.  
You took another shaky breath, hands clenched so tight you could see they'd turned stark white, and you imagined the bone would slice right through if you kept going. Good, you thought. Let them- maybe they'd bleed enough for you to pass out, and while you were gone a rat or vulture would mistake you for dead and strip you body of its flesh, and kill you here.

 

The thought dragged another pitiful whine from your mouth, and you slapped a hand to your lips, parting them and sinking your teeth into the soft skin of your fingers. The pain didn't register- your mind filled with cotton, with TV static- until you’d managed to look down and see the red crescent indent you'd created, and the first few drops of blood on your index knuckle.  
Shivering now with the intensity of your panic, you felt your head becoming lighter and lighter, light like helium, like balloons- and you leaned back in your seat, head lolling to the side. You couldn't keep living like this, you thought, hand weakly reaching for the door and stuffing down the anxiety that reared its hideous face when your hand met the metal.

 

You stiffly freed yourself from the car, nearly tumbling onto the road, standing on shaky legs. You stumble-walked to your door, key gripped painfully tight, and unlocked it and stepped inside, willing yourself not to to scream when you felt the emptiness begin to surround you and cling to your body like a wet cloth.  
Walking inside, your shoes clacking on the wood floor, you steeled yourself to look around at it all, from the drapes that needed to be cleaned, to the couch that hadn't been sat on in years, to the sorry state of the parlor you'd avoided since moving back in.  
  
You forced yourself to take a deep breath, your heart still in your throat after your lepisode, and numbly stepped inside.  
“It's not going to be long,” you consoled yourself as you climbed the stairs. “Just grabbing some stuff.” You walked in the bathroom, grabbed your toothpaste and soap and towels, ignoring your reflection in the mirror as you walked out and entered your bedroom across the hall.

 

You hadn't felt right about taking your parents’ room when you moved in, though it did have the better shower and softer sheets, so you stored all of your things in your childhood room. Walking inside, you think about a different time- a time when you had family here, when you'd complain about your sister hogging the bathroom, or threaten to tell on your brother when he'd sneak girls in through his window and tease him because it should be the other way around. You think of when your room felt like a safe haven and not the prison it's become, and you have to clap a hand over your mouth to stifle the cry that shocks you as it breaks past and fills the air.

 

You slide to the floor, bag of toiletries forgotten as you moan and wail into the soft carpeting, loudly and hideously like at the bar, your face creasing in the worst way, you're sure.

 

It hurts to cry after your last bout, but even the burn in your lungs isn't enough to stop the dam that's been broken inside of you, and you sob into the floor like a dying animal, your breath hitching and coming out in forceful pants that disgust you. “I'm losing my mind,” you choke out; the grief increases nearly tenfold.  
Trying to sit back up is pointless, so you try your best to ride the attack out on your belly, arms curled underneath you like ribbons on a gift. You try to measure the passage of time by your endless stream of misery- by twenty especially loud sobs, your arms have gone numb. After fifty, your legs start to cramp. After sixty two, you're sure your throat is scratched raw and bleeding like an open wound, and your cries peter out until you can find the strength to shove your body into a sitting position.  
Nearly crawling, you make your way to the dresser and take out a week's worth of clothes and, just as weakly, leave the room. Being there doesn't have any more purpose, and you know in your heart that if you stayed in there any longer, you'd be swallowed up and killed by the misery that crashed over you just two seconds ago. Stuffing the clothes in your bag, you worked yourself to your feet, gripping the doorframe hard enough that you imagined you could leave an indent and leaving the room, stumbling away like a newborn calf, gasping for air.

 

Being outside the house isn't the suffocating dread that being inside is- your walk is slightly stronger as you make your way to your car and slip inside, tossing your clothes into the passenger side. “Much better,” you mumble, taking the key in your hand and fondling the ridges.

 

Where would you go? It wasn't like you had any plans- you never did. No errands to run, no friends to see, nobody you'd want to send letters to or call. The day stretched out before you like a sprawling cat. You gripped your keys tighter.  
You finally decided after deliberating for an hour that you would go visit the pond that sat a ways away from your home. It wasn't very far, but you were loath to leave your new sanctuary. But if you drove up to the pond, you thought, you wouldn't have to make the journey back to your house by foot. Looking at your pile of toiletries and clothing, you realized you wouldn’t have to make that journey at all. You felt your lips tug upwards into a hopeful smile, the ghost of joy guiding you to put the key in the ignition and turn.

 

You drive surprisingly well for someone who nearly died twice in the same hour, you note with bleak amusement, the slow turns and deep winding roads that usually make the hair on your arms curl almost relaxing you. Driving down this road that sloped and curved like it was handpainted, not a hitch in your breath, or the urge to curl up and die in sight, you pant out a shocked laugh, your body as steady as it’s ever been. Almost as steady as when you thought you’d left this place for good, a dark corner of your mind feeds you. Your arms begin to wobble, until you work to keep them still. 

At last, you reach your destination, the water of the pond glittering and perfect, like it was made especially for you to escape to. Shivering, you leave your car and move for the water, shedding your shoes, then pants and shirt and staring at your watery reflection, watching the girl in the water undulate like a belly dancer. 

A stroke of genius has you stripping free of your underwear as well, leaving them to rest atop your other clothes as you slide into the water, gracefully cutting the still pond in half, watching it envelop your lower body with fascination. The girl underneath you shivers from the cold and you watch her as well, from the wonder in her eyes, to the parting of her lips, to the delicate curl of her collarbone. You press your hand to hers.

 

Delighted, you spend hours in the pond, feeling the moss under your feet and the coolness of the water eventually warming your skin as the sun lights the surface, once even daring to venture underneath, your eyes widening as you spy a small turtle less than a foot away from your nose. It looks you in your eyes and before you can make anything of it, swims serenely away, seeming to glide in the water. You bring your head up for air, the most calm you’ve felt in a long while.


	3. Haunted House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alright the first two chapters were just playtime, now it’s time for some real uh trauma

  
It feels like a thousand years before you finally think that you're ready to leave the pond- the skin of your hands is pruny and rough when you pull yourself out by the mouth of the water. You take a deep breath, taking in the cold air and smell of the lives around you. You towel off and redress.  
  
You sit in your car with the heater on, marveling at the lack of panic you'd felt in the pond- it was almost like the water had leached it away. The sensation was something you simultaneously understood yet had difficulty naming, and so you left it at that. It wasn't important what the feeling was called as long as it made you as content and ready to face another day. Taking your key in your hand, you start your car and drive off to work, the usual itch to stop by the store absent.   
  
Your job at the post office was tedious work once you'd gotten the hang of everything, but the dread that always plagued you is gone as you walk to the door, giving a quirk of your lips that you hoped passed for a smile to your coworker. She's busy with a customer, though, and you wince at the wasted effort. The customer is saying something to her, something funny- she laughs- and your heart picks up speed because you know that voice. You'd recognize it anywhere; warm like sunshine, deep and comforting like a worn leather sofa. The customer is Mike.  
  
It takes all your strength to not run and wrap your arms around those broad shoulders, slide your fingers down that soft jacket- is it cashmere? Instead, steeling yourself to be near him, you walk up behind the counter and set your things down, putting your bag on the shelf underneath the bar.   
  
"Hey there!" he greets you, eyes crinkling up at the ends, mouth sweeping up into that smile that makes your heart seize. "I didn't know you worked here," you nod at him, wondering where the peace and confidence you'd had before left to. It was like a switch flipping- one minute you were almost normal, the next- struggling for air as he looked at you with his dark eyes and face sweet enough to make you want to... you weren't sure what, exactly, but it fills you with a panic that sets your teeth on edge.   
"Yeah," you tell him, feeling like you've accomplished a serious feat when he smiles at you, his soft lips like a siren's call.He keeps talking you, like you weren't an unwelcome stain on Derry's borders, and you're shocked into an even stiffer stillness.  
"I was just coming up here to have a package sent off," he says, "Didn't think I'd see you. I was actually going to stop by your house later one, to see if you wanted to come hang out later- the ewes on my farm had lambs the other day."   
  
Mouth almost agape, you process what he's just told you, before you remember how to tell him that you'd love to see the lambs, and take his package. It's weighed- you long desperately to tear it open.   
  
He leaves, waving at you as he goes, and your face is heated like furnace as you watch him get in his car and leave. Your coworker snickers at your state and you try your best to fix whatever had unraveled and turned you into this mess that you were now. Work is a blur, and you almost forget to leave, frozen in the moment that Mike had created.  
  
On your way to your car, you see him again as you drive to your pond. He's almost near your house. Your pulse spikes and your heart hammers painfully against your rib cage at the sight of him so close to the driveway, and your mind begs you to say something to stop him from coming one more step.  
  
"Hey!" you force all the strength you have into that one word. It's like an atom bomb on your tongue; you feel like you can even feel the searing heat on the roof of your mouth. The word tastes like gunpowder and smoke. It works, though, you note with relief that makes you sag in your seat.   
  
He turns to see you, face lighting up like at the post office, and waves. "Hey!" And you park to walk towards him, leaning to look at him from his window that he rolled down.   
  
"I didn't know when you got off of work- I forgot to ask before I left the post office." he looks sheepish,like he's revealed a shameful secret, but you can't stop the smile that grows on your face at his words, at this perfect man who somehow managed to make you even more lightheaded and dizzy than reefer. "Do you still want to come see the lambs with me?" he asks you like he's afraid you'll say no, but you're already nodding before he can finish, walking to his passenger side and shutting the awful, evil air of your house out, and then he's driving you away from that fucking place with its suffocating air and ghosts that follow you around every single room.   
  
You brave a glance at Mike as he drives, and you wish that you were the steering wheel underneath his hands. It feels like it's been a century since you felt his hands on you- he looks at you then, and you force yourself to stare back, his eyes like a lake at midnight. "How many lambs are there?" you ask him, because his undivided attention was like being pulled, neck deep, in quicksand, and even though you'd wanted it, now that you had it you were desperate for a life line to grab hold of.  
  
It works- he starts talking about his lambs and ewes, and how small they are, how much work it is to raise them. "Raising lambs is alot like raising children, probably," he says, eyes back on the road finally, "and my siblings were pretty rowdy, so I feel like I'm ready for the challenge." he laughs then, and you have to remind yourself to laugh along- you've gone silent again, wringing your hands in your lap. You feel guilty for the discomfort that surrounds you like a thick fog after wanting him so desperately for all this time- you feel like you've tricked him somehow. You feel like a liar. He talks about his childhood with his brothers and sisters, and you're trying your hardest to keep listening, but you can't. The air feels like it's pressing you further into your seat.   
  
Finally, you arrive at the farm, and it takes all of your willpower to not crawl out of the car like maggots escaping a dead body, and to let him open the door for you. You take his hand- the sensation is still the same, but his eyes have stopped being rays of sunshine and turned into lazers that pierce you right to the soul. You look away.  
  
You feel so cheated that you could scream- this is what you'd wanted, another moment with Mike, a chance to take his hand in yours and hear him speak, and now that you have it- wrapped in silvery ribbon- you would give anything to be back in the water, head under the surface so that you can hide until your body fossilizes underneath the waves. Your mind rages at your stiff movements, your fake laughter until you tell Mike that you really should get going, and he leads you to his car.  
  
"It was nice to see you again," he tells you on the drive to your house as you bite your lip hard enough to bleed. "You too," you force out before you lapse back into silence.   
  
For the first time in so many years, you're happy to see the familiar rooftops of your house as Mike drives up. You thank him for the time out and almost run inside, making a beeline for the toilets, where you empty your stomach until your eyes sting.  
When it's over, you scream into the bowl as hard and as loudly as you can. You scream for the injustice of it all, for the cruel way your mind twisted and morphed your perception until the thought of Mike made you want to fling yourself in front of a train, let your bones snap and ground into powder.   
  
You're still screaming when you hear it- a voice down the hall, faint and light like a child's, and your voice hitches and stops. It floats closer to you, a chorus of whispers and giggles that set the hairs on your neck standing straight and your nerves drawn tight. A particularly throaty laugh has you nearly vomiting again, the deep joy in the voice a mockery of your suffering. Your father- your mind recognizes him after all these years. You feel your eyes prick and tears form in the corners.   
  
The laughter grows louder and closer, until you can nearly feel your father's breath in the shells of your ears and blowing your hair, the faint scent of his favorite whiskey on the air making you retch and choke. He whispers your name, his voice coarse and deep just like you remember, just like the voice he'd use to read bedtime stories to you and your siblings. This time you can't hold back the stuttered, ugly cry that escapes you, the sound amplified by the bowl of the toilet.  
  
"All alone in this house? No brother, no sister..." he says, tutting in disapproval, his voice moving from ear to ear. The tears are flowing freely now, snot running down your nose and settling in your cupid's bow- you wipe furiously, but it continues. Your father's voice travels deeper into your ears, until the whispers make you ache like he'd shouted them at you.  
  
"And I'm not here, either, am I? Gone and buried, and rotted and decomposed. I'm only bones in the ground, just like you'll be, too! You'll be dust in the dirt that even the worms won't bite-and nobody will care, just like they didn't care that you're dying in this town, dying every day now!"  
  
That hits you like a punch to the gut- you can't stop screaming now, your throat pulsing and burning like an open wound doused in lemon juice. You feel your nerves fraying and snapping like threads, sizzling like they're being lowered into a deep fryer. "Stop!" you scream out, arms wrapped around your middle vice tight. "Please stop, oh god, just please, please!" A cackle in your eardrum; he presses on.   
  
"Better stop before you hit the bottom, little girl. Better end it all, make it all go away! Better slice and slice and slice!"   
  
The vomit comes again, forcefully rushing down your throat and into the bowl, black spots in your vision growing larger from the lack of air. You can't have any more to expel, you think before another round has you hunched over the toilet again, shoulders shaking like a junkie.   
  
The laughing has only gotten louder, deafeningly loud while you struggle to breathe. You take a deep shuddering breath, the sobs raking up your throat. "I can't take it anymore, I just... please, no more," you croak out, shivering around the toilet. The smell of bile reaches your nose, and you gag.  
  
Your father's voice is changing- you blanch when his laughter grows higher in pitch, lighter and airier. "Oh, no, no, no..." you moan out, shaking your head, slinging snot and tears across your face.   
  
"Oh, yes, yes, yes!" your mother crows, "He's right, babe of mine! You'd do well to toss yourself away from this town, right into the waves! You don't belong here anymore- outlived your use, you're useless now! Useless and pointless! Stupid blinking calf!"  
  
Their jeers reach their peak as they surround you, raucous laughter making your head pound. Louder and louder and louder, spinning about your head like a carousel, they mock you, sounds of play-retching in the air. You let out another screech, a plea for them to stop, but they only mock you again, their cackles scraping your eardrums.   
  
"Oh, stop! Oh, please, please, please stop!" they scream out, when suddenly, the laughs are cut short, like a blown candle. And then, another voice, terrible and deep and rough like sidewalk gravel right next to your cheek, makes itself known.   
  
"They're right, you know," it says, quiet and calm, and its wrongness is enough to nearly send you screaming again. "Better save yourself now, kiddie!" And the sound of bubbles popping replaces the voice, the sudden scent of something cloyingly sweet fills the air before the silence returns again.  
  
You slide to the floor, and once you hit the cold tile you know can't pick yourself up after that- the sweat running down your body is like a lake, pooling taller and taller as you lay there, taking in breath after shuddering breath.  
  
"I can't take it again. I can't, I can't," you mumble to yourself, feeling your strength slowly returning to your limbs. You pull yourself off the tile and into a standing position, until you're standing in front of the mirror.  
  
The mess that stands inside the glass- that can't be you, caked in snot and tears, eyes swollen shut, puffy like full balloons. You bring your hands to your face, mapping out every bloated feature, and the girl in the mirror follows you. Her nails look ragged and bitten to the quick. She looks like she'd scream, right here and now, and not stop until her heart imploded. She's disgusting, you think as she follows your every movement.   
  
If you hadn't realized it before- if the last time wasn't brutal enough- you sure as hell know it now. You can't stay one more second in this fucking place. You shuffle out of the bathroom, and down the stairs until you reach your car.


	4. Whiplash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's ready for ya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pink wig thicc ass make em whiplash

You waste no time- in seconds you’re in your car, speeding until you reach your pond, throwing yourself out of your seat and sinking like a stone, clothes and all, to the bottom. The water is dark and cool, freezing whatever nightmare lurked beneath your home like blood under a scab. You think of your father’s voice, his violent laughter that made you sick. Your father was never a malicious man; his kindness was what had initially attracted your mother to him, like nectar from a lily. Your father was the gentlest man you’d known as a child- whatever that had been, it wasn’t him, you decided. 

 

Pondering the evil that you’d experienced made you even colder than the water did; you decided to put it behind you until you had to face it again. Quick like lightning, your mind raced to create ways to avoid a repeat encounter. You had clothes- you could wash them at the laundry mat. You had the store for food, you had your car for bed. And you didn’t have any friends: nobody would ever ask to see the place or spend the night. If you played your cards right, you'd never have to fucking see the house again.

 

Dipping your head below the water, you hold your breath and let the air trapped in your lungs warm and burn you from the inside out, staring into the murky darkness. You wished that you could gather the courage to walk back in your house and banish the demons that lived in the curtains and under your bed- you wished that it wasn't you who had to deal with them.

 

Bitterness over your defeat settled in your mouth like molten lava until you couldn't hold it back anymore- you launched to the surface of the pond, ready to scream, but the fury died in your throat as you eyed a shadowy figure that stood by the edge of the water.

 

You couldn't tell if the person was very old, or just a homeless person that looked for refuge in the forests- the hood that they donned was tattered and oversized, blocking out each and every one of their features, save for their hunched shoulders and knobbly hands. Somehow, though, you knew that they were staring directly at you, right through your angry flush and wet hair that clung to the sides of your face.

 

Before you had a chance to react, or scream, swim away they were on you, so close that you could see that the person was an old woman, thin hair laying limply on her scalp. Her scowl looks too familiar, and you realize in a rush.

 

"The store woman," you say. You're confused- why is she here? Why is she here for you? Your thought swim like your head has become the very pond that you're wading in, and she leans in closer to you, her breath heating your ears and cheek. 

 

"Your pain... like a candle left to burn." she whispers into your ear, and you still until you feel your knees ache from being so rigidly locked.

"You will not escape."

Your eyes widen in terror as she makes to enter the pond with you, watching as her robes turn the water black, the rot emanating from her very being suffocating you, pushing the air in your lungs further and further down until it's too compressed to be safe; you feel like you're going to sink right to the bottom with only the fish and ducks to bear witness to your demise. 

 

The woman is fully submerged in the water with you, a ring of black bleeding out with her at the center. Her hair clings even tighter to her scalp now, like it's been drawn on by a child, running down her bony pallid face like ink. She wades closer to you, the inky substance her hood is giving off warming your skin like bleach.

It smells caustic like bleach, too, and you worry that it'll somehow stain you- maybe leave you lighter in places that it touched you, or even burning you. You flounder and splash until you're far enough away that you could entertain the idea of calming down, but then she advances even faster, swimming at you so fast that she becomes a blur of white arms and stringy hair and black water and teeth- and a strange flash of orange-yellow that has you dumbfounded into stillness.       

 

She grabs hold of you, needle-fingers digging into the meat of your shoulders, and shakes you until you feel something in your brain jostling violently even after she's stopped. "Naughty, naughty!" she mock-chastises you, sniggering through her crooked, yellowed teeth. You open your mouth in confusion, to ask her why she's doing this, why she'd followed you into the pond- how she'd found the pond to begin with- and she pinches your lips together hard, her nails threatening to pierce straight through. "Good girls do not speak unless spoken to," she says in that same sugary voice that has your stomach churning, and then she's pressing her whole hand on your mouth, the pads of her palm pressing against you so hard you feel like you'll be bruised for days. 

 

You start thrashing when the back of your lips painfully meet the front of your teeth,  pulling and writhing away as hard as you can. But the woman only pulls you in closer with her other hand, her mottled face only inches from yours. Her eyes burn like flames in the winter, snapping and rolling viciously as she stares you down. The brightness ebbs and peaks like something else lives behind her irises, something that wouldn't hesitate to shred you to ribbons and devour your bloodied flesh like a shark, and pick out your marrow until you were nothing but chips of bone and hair at the bottom of this place you'd chosen as your sanctuary.    

 

A panicked whimper slides past the barrier she's made with her impossibly thin, witchy hands; she breathes it in like she can smell how close you are to having a nervous breakdown collapsing in the now black water with her, and she coos. Her nonsensical babbling and giggles don't register as words- nothing that you can recognize as human- but they still fill you to bursting with horror that inhabits every empty space inside you until you can feel it trickling down your nose and tickling your chest. 

 

The woman's feverbright eyes catch it, lurching her out of her terrifying trance, snapping from your face, to the blood that has begun to make its way to your clavicle, inching towards the water. She loosens her hold on you and you try to dart to freedom- only to realize that you're paralyzed, muscles locked and frozen in this watery hell with someone you've already begun to accept as lacking any traces of humanity. 

 

"Do you bleed when you're terrified, little pigsney?" she simpers at you, and wafts of hot breath, scented like burning sugar and wet moss, and something else ancient that hurts your nose and brain, fan into you. You splutter and choke, and she grins fully, baring a mouthful of misplaced canines that look like they were handpicked, then placed, one by one, into her endless, gaping maw. "What if I do this?" she asks, lunging forward until her nose touches yours.

 

It's been too long since you've been this close to another being, but even know that her skin is unnatural,  _wrong._ The texture is like softened leather and insulation from houses, painted and dyed until it almost passed for a mimicry of human flesh. It gives entirely too much as it presses into you, yet stays rigid and offensively strong at the same time. You can't wrap your mind around the intricacies of this demon woman's evil, rotten flesh; you feel the seams of your mind ripping and splintering apart at the very prospect of attempting. Another terrified bleat bursts from between your mouth, sharp like a needle.

 

The woman shakes her head at you, a breakneck back-and-forth that renders her a blur, and has her hair wrapped in a halo around her face and neck. You can't see her eyes- somehow, it terrifies you more. 

 

"Now, now," she say, her hands making their way to your waist, her grip on the spaces in between your sockets making you groan in pain and your eyes slide shut, "No need to bellyache, no, no no! The turtledove needn't bemoan!" She slides her hands up and down your sides, cooing at you in that nonsense language from before that made your little hairs stand up straight, and before you know it, she's underneath the surface of the water, taking her inkiness with her.

 

You're shot with panic- you can't see her face, you can't know what she'll do, when she'll be back. All at once, though, you tuck your legs as close to your body as you can, trying to swim to the mouth while keeping your feet safe.

 

The lip of the pond is close enough now that you can snatch at the grass and heave yourself out of the water that looks like ink and rot; you reach of the edge and pull like she's already got you in her grasp, grab and grab until your breasts are clear of the water, then your chest, your thighs.

 

The distinct feeling of a hand wrapping round your ankle and tugging hard has you reeling, yanking you back into the pond, the dirt under your nails the only evidence that you'd tried to leave, and before you can swallow a breath of air, you're under the surface, and it's so dark- dark enough that you can't tell if you've closed your eyes, or if you've kept them wrenched open to see this awful expanse of water swallowing you whole .

 

You're being spun around- and there she is, even darker against the pitch black darkness of the water, her silhouette morphing and changing shape so often you're sure that it's not the water, and the she was willfully switching forms, from woman, to shark, to things that you couldn't even begin to try to identify.

 

"Why so pale, little sugar dumpling girl?" she somehow manages to ask you, and your ears burn in pain from the act of receiving her under the surface of the pitch black water. Your lungs burn from the lack of oxygen- but just like before, you're unable to move, your legs clamped together like they'd been padlocked. 

 

You try to beg her with your eyes to release you, but meeting her gaze only sends you further into a blind panic that has you thrashing like a worm on a hook, the upper half of your body contorting and snapping about. You can't stop the painful movement of your body, you realize, and you look to the demon woman.

 

She's gone- the only remainder of her being is a dark mist that's vaguely designed in her image, and those two awful eyes, the red bleeding into orange, then back again and again. They switch so quickly that it makes something raw and visceral inside you churn, and this time, you can't help it- your mouth wrenches itself open and you scream out, silvery bubbles racing to the surface. You're free for a split second- but then she grabs you by the hair and shoves you downward, the darkness of the water lifting so that you can see what she's trying to show you.

 

Bodies. Everywhere at thee bottom of the pond- children, all forms of children; girls with no limbs and gnawed faces, little boys with chunks ripped out of their abdomens. The boy from the missing poster, his stump arm encased in his little yellow slicker, floats face-up, his corn silk hair floating around his head. His bloated face stays peaceful as you look on in horror, bloated lips parted slightly in the way children's are wont to do. Your heart breaks for his brother that you sometimes see when you make your visits to the store; he constantly looked like the death of his brother grabbed hold of him, and never let go, forced him to bow til his back snapped and heart broke every day until he was allowed to die. 

 

"Salty like brine and sweat and piss-" the woman hisses in your ear, fingernails scraping your arms and ribs as she makes her way around you, "that Denbrough boy sure was a real scaredy cat!" she crows, enunciating the last 't' hard enough that you flinch. You bristle as she drags a knife-sharp nails across your cheek.

 

"But oh, how his bones snapped and popped under my teeth..." 

 

Your lungs are giving out; with the new light you'd been granted, you can now see that your vision is disappearing in dark spots. "Oh, hush up," she gripes at you, and the boy's eyes roll backward in their sockets as the woman drags you to the surface of the pond, and heaves you onto the grass.

 

The water from the pond is settled deep into your lungs- you feel it churning inside you like the ocean- when you're flipped onto your back and beat between the shoulder blades hard enough to snap you in half. The water rushes out of you in forceful volleys, the waves burning as the leave your lips and spatter onto the grass. She doesn't stop until your back feels like it's going to break, and your eyes roll back like Georgie Denbrough's.

 

When you come to, you're alone and naked, leaves and bracken stuck to your stomach. You get your bearings, scramble for your clothes and rush to your car, locking the door behind you with shaking fingers. 

 

Heaving breaths like you've run a thousand miles, you pull your clothes on, itching at a spot on your shoulder that has begun to bleed.

 

The pond isn't safe anymore. Your house isn't safe anymore. And if you saw that woman from the shopping mart, that meant that it wasn't safe, either.

 

You feel pathetic for breaking down like this, for crying until you empty out your stomach for the second time in the day, but the tears keep coming, blocking out your vision and streaming down your cheeks and collecting at your chin. You cry for everything you've lost- all those years ago, and right now- for being stupid enough to believe that you could have a space that gave you peace, for spoiling your outing with Mike after he'd been all you'd wanted since the day began. You sob until your voice goes hoarse, and then gives out, and then you go quiet, because it sounds like, from the quiet sniffling in the backseat, to the overly theatrical whimpers, to the mocking "wah, wah," crying sounds, you're not alone in your car. 

 


	5. Looky-Loo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now he's just fucking with you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aighty bois, when i say "unresolved family trauma," you say "makes for an easy angle to pick at someone and slowly chip away at their sanity!!!"

It's been days since that incident in the pond, but you still hear that fucking laugh every time you step into your car.

That first time, you'd been terrified- whipped your head back and searched for the demon woman and found nothing but empty air, the laugh growing more mocking and cruel. 

Now, days later, it's been hissing into your ear; when you're on the road, it tells you to swerve into a pole, or another car. When you're parked, it tells you to drive into the garage and take a nap with the engine running. 

You've taken to walking places now. You don't want to gamble with your shaky grasp on your mind, because you know that you've been slipping. 

Once in the kitchen, when you'd gathered the courage to step inside, the voice had chanted and chanted for hours to slit your wrists with the knife you were using; to stick your head in the oven when it finished preheating. 

Once, it visited you when you were touching yourself under the covers with the lights off and the curtains drawn.

In the dark, with your hands occupied and your mind full of Mike- how his hands would feel on your waist, your breasts; how his lips, full and brown like syrup, would move with your own- you were so concentrated on your fantasy that the voice's immediate intrusion scared you so badly that your fingernail scratched you deep inside, and it laughed at you when you bled on the sheets.

"You think that man wants you that way? You think he wants to touch and hold that filthy skin?" 

It snickered at you until the early hours of the morning, mocked you for trying to get yourself back into the same mood as before until you'd pulled the covers over your head and slept in the too-hot air underneath your sheets, the smell of your own sex making you sick and ashamed.

It exhausts you to the point that while you're walking, you don't even hear Mike jogging to meet you, and when he calls out to you, you start- a full body flinch that scares you both.

"Oh," he says, "I'm sorry. I should have warned you." 

"I just saw you walking and wanted to join, and maybe head to the library later- I saw a book of poetry I thought you might like."

He walks with you down your usual path, your eyes lingering on his lips and hands and neck, the voice whispering at you all the while, chastising you for your depravity.

"Bet you wish he would offer to take you, don't you? Little rotten nasty, bet you'd like to taste his cock right outside, hmm?" 

You blanch as its suggestions and accusations get more lewd, Mike's words fading into white noise as the voice goes on and on. 

"I could tell him, too. Oh, yes! I can! I could take a trip into little ol' Mikey's noggin, let him know exactly who he's spending his time with. I could tell him all the rotten naughty girl things you've been saying underneath your palm when the sun goes down, and especially the naughty things you've done with those fingers! Think he'd hold your hand after that?"

It cackles wickedly when you beg with all your might for it to stay in your mind alone- it keeps you on edge: one minute relenting, and then right back to threats the next, toying with you until the even the thought of Mike breaks you into a cold sweat.

Finally, it leaves you when Mike reaches a park bench- apparently, you'd been walking in circles with him in tow, and he'd seen that you weren't going anywhere soon.

You sit down with him on the bench, shivering at the feeling of his skin touching yours, shame sitting high in your face when the voice tells you how dirty it was to want the man next to you.

"You don't mind spending time with me, do you?" He asks you. 

You realize how uncomfortable you look, with your locked knees and crossed arms- you take a deep breath and unfold.

"No! I do like you! I wish i could talk to you-more!" You blurt out the words like a child, face hot like a furnace, the voice berating you loud like a foghorn; you're almost too embarrassed to glance at Mike.

Mike looks like he could melt if you speak one more word; his eyes have grown so warm that they look liquid, and when he smiles at you, you're almost too spellbound by it to respond.

"I like you, too," he murmurs, and he moves to take your hand, a question in his eyes.

You close the distance and hold him like that, with his hand wrapped in yours like layers of the earth.

The two of you sit that way until your stomach growls, and you smile apologetically.

" I'm kind of hungry, too-there's a nice place to eat that's not too far from here, if you want to go with me. It's walking distance; I'd have to go park my car at home, though, if that's fine." 

You tell him you do, so he walks you to his car and make the drive to his house on the hill.

"He knows what a dirty guttersnipe you are- he's going to take you to his house and split you on his cock, then he's going to toss you all away into the bin! And it'll be what you deserve, for leaving all those moons ago. Look at him; he wants a good little girl. And you're not even close, no, no, no! Not a good girl at all- you're the little harlot that scrubbed and scrubbed but couldn't get the smell of cunt out from her sheets. He'd never have you."

You don't want to go out to the restaurant anymore, but you can't make this like your last wasted outing with Mike. The guilt from being zoned out on him climbs up your spine like poison ivy, shame warring with desire the burns in between your legs like molten lava, like scalding hot ocean waves low in your belly, so when he takes you inside his home, you nearly faint before you cross the threshold.

In your mind, you fashion a new scene, a you that isn't afraid to grab Mike and meld into him and moan that you want him. The you in the fantasy is bold, and sexy, and undeterred by his gentle nature- you cut it all away and see the core of Mike, the desire that lives at the very heart of him.

 

He gets whatever he'd entered the house for, and leads you the car,  and begins his drive. 

"So," he says when you get in, "what made you move back to Derry?" 

You turn to look answer him- and in his place is the worst looking monster you've ever seen.

It looks like your mother, like your sister and brother and father, but if they'd been put through a wood chipper and then glued back together, then left to rot.

Your mother's eyes and forehead is stacked haphazardly over top of your brother's cheeks and jaw and mouth, both settled on top of your father's neck- the gleam of his gold chain in the sunshine makes your hesrt ache and pound painfully in your chest.

Your brother's jaw moves like a puppet's might- the half that is your mother moves upward until it looks like it'll fall off, and your brother moves so forcefully that his jaw nearly touches the chest.

"Why'd you let her die alone in that house, huh? Mom needed you!" It's your sister's voice that comes out, and when the thing moves to wag its finger at you, you see the ring that she liked to wear on the base of it.

"She doesn't care. She doesn't care one little bitty bit! You know what she cares about!" 

Then the horrible puppet starts laughing, all of your family's voices blended together in a terrifying cacophony that has you nearly reaching for the car door. Better to fling yourself out of a moving vehicle than see one more second of your family haunting you like this.

You try to wrench the door open, but only find the smooth interior of the car. You search and keep searching, but the door doesn't turn up, the windows dont break, and you only succeed in cutting your hands open. Your blood spatters on the windows as you try to break the glass.

All of a sudden, the loud laughter stops- and you turn again.

The puppet's face has gone unnaturally still; your brother's mouth is set in a grim line, and your mother's eyes have a look in them- ancient like the inside of a catacomb, twice as rotten, and so much more evil. 

Her eyes bore into yours for so long that you imagine it burns to look at her; you feel your eyes drying up in your skull like two gelatin marbles and rolling out of your face and on the seat.

The heat is unlike anything you've experienced in your life- it rolls and lashes at you in droves; your mouth feels like it's filled with sand, and your body feels like it's on the verge of collapse.

You realize that her eyes, searing hot and bright like a star, remind you of the woman from the pond. It weakly jolts you, before the force of the heat hits you again, and puppet's face begins to bloom apart like a flower from hell.

Your brother's mouth splits open, wider and wider, your mother's forehead and eyes flapping backwards with a sickening  _thwap_ as she hits the seat- and a flurry of hair like rusted copper peeks through the opening like a baby crowning.

More and more hair is visible as it grows tall like a weed; you shriek out when you see a hint of white, and then an impossible globe of forehead. Still, the creature that was living inside-puppeteering- your family's corpses continues to creep closer and closer to the roof of the car.

You feel its eyes before you see them- your father's chest glows with two pinpricks of yellow light-like toxic waste, and then they're on you again. You can't escape the car, can't flee to safety from the burning intensity of its glare as it presents itself, the red stripes on its face making themselves known, then its nose, and then finally a mouth with two jagged, uneven fangs that hang past its top lip, and well into the middle of the bottom.

"Well, well, well, lookee here," it crows at you, waggling its head from side to side, saliva flicking your cheeks. The smell of cloyingly sweet candy and somthing like vomit fills your nostrils, and the thing- a clown, an increasingly shrill part of you shrieks- grins, and you hear, very faintly,  the sound of your own voice screaming back at you. 

Its face spills open, like your family's had, until the top if its face is touching its neck, and a low gurgle sounds from its gut.

A bubble, tinged red, is steadily filling with air as you watch on it horror, from the clown that's wearing your father's chest. Right in the center of its face, the bubble grows larger and larger, swelling like an abscess, until it overfills, and sprays you with blood with a wet burst.

"You've been pretty quiet," it suddenly says with Mike's voice. You jump.

Looking at Mike's face, you watch for it to return- a too- bright gleam of the eye, anything orange- but ten seconds later, and its still only Mike, who's begun to look concerned.

"Is everything okay? We don't have to go, if that's what you want..."

He looks at you then, and you cringe at what you must look like; you clear your throat and try to push the thought from your mind.

"Can we go back to your house?" You ask him.

* * *

 

"What's going on?" Mike asks you in that soft voice.

You don't know how to tell him what you saw- something beyond description. How do you explain something that tries to tear your mind apart every time you think on it? 

You gape at him, feeling like a fool, before you find your voice and say, " I just thought... Just remembered something awful. I'm- I didn't mean to spoil... I..." 

The tears feel like claws at ypur tear ducts, stinging as they run down your face and chin. "I just saw..."

Mike is on you in an instant; he has you wrapped in his arms with his hand on your upper back. 

"I can't tell you I understand," he starts, "but I can try if you want to tell me. I can be an ear, and I can be your support. You dont have alot of people you can say these things to- I know how others act toward you. But I'm here to listen, I'm hear to help, and I'm here to stay."

You start bawling into his neck right then and there; his voice sounded so sure and right, and you believed him- you really wanted to believe that he was there for you, and would let you inside to wait out this winter.

"I can't come home," you tell him, and then you cry even harder into him, until it feels like your very bones are vibrating so hard they'll fly apart.

He rubs your back again. 

"Why can't you come home?" He asks you in that honeyed voice.

"I hear... My family. And it feels... And it feels like they're there, and the pond..."

The thought of your pond being ruined for good has you wailing again. You let the screams out into Mike's shirt, darkening the fabric with your tears.

He holds you in silence, saying nothing of the desperate hold you have on his shirt, before he asks you.

"Have you ever heard of a trigger?" 

You shake your head.

"Well, sometimes when things happen to us- like what happened with you in your house- our brain holds onto it, so as to better know how to defend ourselves. Like, if somebody who hit you wore necklaces that made noise when they walked, your brain would send you into panic mode whenever you heard that particular noise so you could run or fight."

"And I imagine something especially traumatic happened in your home to make you react like this, as well as the fact that you've been staying there day after day."

"I can't... Sometimes I just stay in my car, or by the pond,"  you whisper. You're so ashamed, laying all of your secrets out to him like this, but you can't stop. Soon you're telling him about your siblings, and the supermarket, and the-

"- clown," you finish, your voice quieter than its been since he'd held you.

"A clown?" He asks you. His voice is as quiet as yours, maybe even more. You're scared to nod. 

Mike takes a deep breath before he releases you, hands on your shoulders. "Do you want to spend the night here instead of your car?" He asks you. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok guys theres no smut here, maybe nit evem in the next chapter.......... But soon... PapaCheese would never let u down- except when i go on 2 year hiatuses


End file.
